The Monster At The End Of This Book
by Grav
Summary: One of them still has plenty of monster inside.  Post-Sleepers, Helen/Tesla


**AN**: I'm really hoping this whole "write a fic every day" thing ends soon. I do miss sleeping on a regular schedule. ;) Written for the prompt "Helen/Nikola, still a monster"

**Spoilers**: Sleepers

**Disclaimer**: Soooooo not mine. More's the pity.

**Pairing/Characters**: Helen Magnus/Nikola Tesla

**Rating**: M

**Summary**: One of them still has plenty of monster inside.

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**The Monster At The End Of This Book**

The only upside to the whole miserable business of losing his vampiric heritage to a stupid machine of his own invention he couldn't even _name_effectively, much less use without backfiring, is that when he next beds Helen Magnus, she will be his equal.

(He's wrong of course, but how wrong exactly will take him a while to figure out.)

Their inequality has plagued him throughout their entire relationship, from their stodgy Oxfordian beginnings through the start of the twentieth century and even outlasted his own faked death. First she was a lady, then he was a Serb, then he was a vampire, then she was what passed for sanity even though she was anything but, and finally here they are, and once he figures out how to detach himself from her flatware, he intends to take full advantage of the fact.

(He takes advantage of everything, always has, and he has no intention of stopping now just because he's mortal.)

He knows better than to think she'll really let him get too far in her office, but he can't help but try. The Sanctuary never sleeps, it's true, and the children do have a tendency to bring every single one of their problems to her at the slightest provocation, and he really would prefer privacy, but so help him, he also really, really wants her to be naked.

(God, he hasn't seen her naked enough in his life, even from when naked meant only bare ankles or pale arms.)

Helen, naturally, has other things in mind, and before he can manage more than a few of the buttons on her blouse, she has his trousers undone and her hands are wrapped around his cock just a hair closer to pain than he can stand. He knows when he's overmatched, so he lets his hands slide to her waist and pretends he's the one that guiding her as she moves to straddle him.

(He's always very careful not to think of John Druitt at times like these, and especially now that John could break him in half without working up a sweat.)

Her skirt is nearly pushed up to her hips now, and she doesn't stop him when he rucks it up the rest of the way. She's wet already when he touches her, even though her hose and whatever she's wearing for underwear this decade, and he suddenly realizes that this is going to be a very frustrating evening for him if he doesn't get the upper hand soon.

(He never has the upper hand, but he goes so long between trying to get it that he always forgets.)

Her grin is very nearly feral as she pushes his shoulders back against the sofa, and he knows from feral. For a moment, he considers teasing her, thinks of drawing teasing circles against her clit, but then she's kissing him and he knows that the time for such gentility has passed. He presses his fingers against her, fumbling through fabric until he finds exactly the right spot.

(It took him nearly ten years to _find_ that spot, because his experimentation with other places on her body was more consuming and he thought he had all the time in the world.)

She rides his hand with abandon, hair flying carelessly across her face and with absolutely no regard for his own arousal. When she comes, she rests her head in the crook of his neck for just a moment, and against his better judgement, he relaxes. This, it turns out, is exactly what she was waiting for.

(Because she is always, always ahead of him, even when he's planned out every possible turn.)

He growls deep in his throat when she pushes away from him and shifts back to sitting beside him on the couch. She smiles somewhat wickedly at him, and he knows that whatever round of their game they've just played, he has well and truly lost.

(He's been well and truly lost since the very first time he laid eyes on her, but every time he imagines telling her his resolve burns away like a tree struck by lightning.)

It dawns on him as he watches her pull her skirt straight and refasten her blouse with just enough deliberation that it can't possibly be accidental, that one of them still has plenty of monster inside.

(And it certainly isn't him.)

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**fin**

Gravity_Not_Included, January 24, 2011


End file.
